


Völuspá

by starlightsonatas



Series: Énouement [1]
Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Listen Hound is not human or at least not entirely., Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 14:16:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17868845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightsonatas/pseuds/starlightsonatas
Summary: They push the pyre from shore, they light the wood aflame; but the spirit ofBloth Hoondrdoes not leave them.





	Völuspá

The women say they are a scorned child of a great chief, forced to travel the lands in a hopeless search to restore their honor. The men laugh, toast to the folly of women, and launch into their own raucous tales.

They are a cursed half-breed, a bastard of Odin and a human maid. They are a raven turned human by Loki, an attempt to offend the Allfather. They are everything, and because of this they are nothing.

They prefer it this way.

_Bloth Hoondr_ does not bother themselves with gossip. They go where Allfather wills them. Right here, in this small village of only a few hundred, they make base. Here they will find their destiny. 

The children are not afraid of them as the adults are, a fact they find endlessly amusing. They let the little ones reach for the raven they have befriended, a large male they’re named Muninn, even if he always flaps quickly out of the reach of grubby hands.

They make sure to bring sweets each time they enter town to do business or bring news to the chief and his advisors. They like the young ones. None have the piercing, angry gaze of the elders. The leaders do not like them. An outsider, no matter what they say. 

It does not matter in the end. Their actions speak plenty.

Slowly, they build trust. A wild boar that had ravaged the village for years is felled in a month by their hand. Spies for enemy tribes are scouted out and executed. The maidens are no longer reluctant to accept their help when they offer to carry their burdens. The men bring their sons to learn the ways of the hunt.

Slowly, without realizing it at first, they begin to think of this place as home.

And it is nice to belong somewhere.

They haven’t felt such happiness in a long time. They protect the Allfather’s people, and it feels more like a gift than a duty.

It is almost beyond belief, then, when the hunter loses their life to the most innocuous of killers.

The fruits of the north are plentiful, but so few are edible. A simple mistake in the late hours of the night, vision blurred by exhaustion and snow. It could have happened to anyone. Even the village legend.

Their body is found prone, peaceful. The big raven has fallen victim as well. A loyal friend, even in death. 

The village mourns their protector. Even so, there is a guilty sort of relief that settles over them. One so powerful could never be truly trusted. If the god’s will turned against the people, so would _Bloth Hoondr._

It is better this way, the leaders of the village whisper, where they are sure they won’t be heard. Yes, it is better than the hunter never gets the chance to betray them.

They should know by now that the gods hear all.

They push the pyre from shore, they light the wood aflame; but the spirit of _Bloth Hoondr_ does not leave them.

|||

Dagfinn Frigard is the first to die.

He is not chief, at least not in name, but his influence curls over the village. What he lacks in physical strength he makes up for in cunning. This is not to say, however, that he can mask the content of his character.

Everyone knows that on the coldest nights of winter, he invites the freezing young girls into his bed. He sends them off with blankets, money, and milk in exchange for their honor. The tribe is ashamed, but says nothing. He is too valuable. He keeps them together.

He is not invincible.

Wolves have been frequenting his pastures, picking off lambs and nursing ewes. Dagfinn stakes out the land one night, armed with his spear and his anger.

It takes nothing except a shard of rock, jammed through the eye socket, to end his life.

When he’s found, the people _know._

For weeks after, women leave offerings of bread and cheese. Men throw themselves upon the ground and thank the Allfather each time they have a successful hunt. Parents pray with their children in their beds. 

_Not us,_ they beg, _not this family._

A being no longer human listens, and thinks _no, you will not die. Your ignorance is no crime._

It is not the time for vengeance. It is time for justice.

A shadow slips through the homes of every person who played a part in the death of _Bloth Hoondr._ A raven shrieks in the night. 

When the deed is done, the shadow leaves. Quietly, remorselessly. It leaves a village broken. There is nothing left for them here.

They do not know when they first begin to touch the living realm again. Slowly, so much so that it takes them decades to notice, their feet begin to press into the marshy earth. Their skin chills with the breeze.

_Bloth Hoondr_ breathes, and truly feels it for the first time since their death.

They take a moment to look around at the world. Gone are the tribes and the worshippers of Odin. A dead religion, they call it. Their blood curdles at the thought. The Allfather is not dead. The Allfather himself breathed life back into them.

They have traveled so far for so long they no longer have any idea of where they are or where they are going. Their language is not useful in this new land. English does not come naturally to their tongue.

“Ég er Blóðhundur,” they rasp. They shake their head and try again.

“I am Bloth Hoondr.” 

Again.

“Bloth Hunder.”

Again. 

“Blood... Hund...” They dig their nails into their palms and will calmness to wash over them. They lick their lips and say it again, each word slow but sure.

“I am... Bloodhound.”

And the hunter walks the earth once more.


End file.
